


All, I Cannot Tell

by regulsh



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, Intoxicated Sex, M/M, Pining, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: Songs play on the radio, lyrics he knows are Bernie’s, and his mouth twists into a sharp little smile at the oddity of it all.
Relationships: Elton John/Bernie Taupin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	All, I Cannot Tell

Bernie’s been off writing songs for other people for months now, which is absolutely fine in Elton’s book. Precisely what he wanted. What he asked for, even. 

He doesn’t regret a thing.

Well. He _might_ regret the snippy way they went about it, if anything. A fit of pique on the plane, unable to stop the bitter words coming out of his mouth, and then when he looked around a few days later Bernie was just gone. Like he never existed. Elton wasn’t sure if he could call him, wasn’t sure if Bernie would even pick up the phone, if he did. 

(They were good, still. Had to be. Bernie would have _told_ him, if they weren’t good.)

He doesn’t regret it, not one bit. He just—wonders. Solely professional curiosity. What the work is like, the process, what he’s doing. What he’s missing.

Songs play on the radio, lyrics he knows are Bernie’s, and his mouth twists into a sharp little smile at the oddity of it all. He feels like even if he didn’t know Bernie, he would be able to tell that the words were his. 

Which would probably be impossible, really. But hell, he’d at least _care_. Elton often has to remind himself that most people aren’t familiar with writers. Not as slavishly devoted to liner notes as he is.

The songs are fucking shit, anyway. But they’re doing well. Good for him. 

He still snaps off the radio when they come on. Doesn’t mean he has to listen to them.

-

Elton, as is his wont, throws a party to take his mind off things. One just like any other, no real reason, just an excuse to gather the most fascinating and fabulous people he knows and get absolutely fucked up in the same convenient location. He decides, after agonizing, to invite Bernie. It’s been long enough. Considers getting a friend of a friend to pass along word, but finally works up the courage to call him directly.

The receiver presses hard to his ear before the click of Bernie’s answering machine relieves him, heart thudding at the sound of his breezy pre-recorded voice. Elton leaves a too-short, too-casual message. _Party round mine, Saturday. If you’re in town. Nine-ish, but whenever. You know._

Urges himself to hang up. 

_Hope—_ he pauses. _Hope to see you._

He leaves it at that.

-

But once Saturday arrives and it’s near midnight Elton’s past caring, or at least convinces himself he is. He keeps expecting a familiar clap on the shoulder, a grinning face to emerge from the crowd, but no such luck.

In the meanwhile he’s made good work of most of a bottle of JD, the already frayed and floaty edges of the room unstitching even further. (Josiah, insufferable Josiah, had shown up early with an awful fringed jacket and a small baggie of mushrooms that he passed to Elton with a bow, who ate them merrily. Josiah stayed unbothered in a corner, strumming a guitar, while Elton made uncomfortable conversation before excusing himself under the thin guise of party preparations. He supposes even the rich and famous are not above the indignity of their drug dealer not knowing when to scarper.)

Elton greets every single person, carries on and howls as the mob grows, dipping in and out of time and lucidity. The room swims with shouts and music, women teetering in sky-high heels, beautiful men laughing and embracing him, everything and everybody pleasantly bobbing and swaying. But it’s getting late, and it’s all starting to tip over into a wave that threatens to pull him under.

He sets his drink atop the newel and clambers up the stairs, slinging himself from the banister off to a bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He near collapses on the bed, the relative silence pressing against his ears after so much noise. He feels like he got away with something and giggles to himself, rolls over on the thick pelt on the bed, petting it, sending coarse wisps through his greedy fingers.

Hung above the bed, a crystal chandelier giggles too, clinking and chiming above him. He forgot there was a chandelier in here. How lovely. 

He blinks at it, slowly. Being alone for the first time in hours makes the magnitude of his intoxication too real, everything spinny and taking a moment too long to register. The wave of people downstairs has receded somewhat but he can still hear it: below him now, sloshing around, lifting him.

He could use a little lift, that’s for certain. Will people even notice he’s gone? Maybe he’ll go back out, pose on the interior balcony and raise his hands like Evita. Good old fashioned drama; they’ll cheer for him. He’ll soak up all their voices, in place of the one he most wants to hear.

The crystal doorknob jiggles and he rolls his head, wills his eyes to focus on it. He’s almost angry that his momentary seclusion is interrupted before it opens, and who should lean in with a spilling drink and a smile but Bernie. _Bernie_.

“There you are. You were gone, from the party,” he says, unsteady on his feet. “I had to come find you.”

“And you’ve come to cheer me up?” Elton says, plaintive. Lifts a hand towards him. Just what he hoped for: Bernie’s _here_ , with him.

Bernie chuckles, and it warms his heart. “Is that what you need?”

“I was _waiting_ for _you_ ,” Elton insists. “You have to know that.”

Bernie smiles, sets his drink down and joins him. Bounces next to him on the bed, boylike. It makes him think of their days spent in Pinner, cramped on his bed with the spare boiled wool blanket, late nights when his mother groused about the _useless racket_ from the piano and pushed them up the stairs. They’d work until they couldn’t anymore and Elton would wake in the middle of the night with a snort, see Bernie’s face stuck to a notebook with drool, Bernie’s limbs slung around him, his heart beating so fast in his chest.

It’s so much the same, this. Except now, here in this silk and furred bed that God himself couldn’t afford, they’re both awake. And Bernie is tentatively leaning in and kissing him.

Elton’s head tilts, his mouth opens in shock against his. “ _Bernie_ ,” he says, shattered. Bernie’s response is slurred against his lips.

Elton feels Bernie’s hands come onto his shoulders, and Elton clumsily breaks away, dumbfounded. “You said this would never— You said.”

“Hm?” Bernie seems genuinely confused, wavery in front of his eyes. He shrugs, unconcerned. “I’ve said a lot of things.”

“Words,” Elton responds at a loss, as Bernie kisses him, _kisses_ him, the easy pull of his lips, a slip of his tongue against his. Elton's hands shake as they come up to hold him, every cell in his body glowing warm. Bernie grips tight around his hips, before one hand migrates and rubs clumsily over Elton in his jacquard trousers.

“You don’t—” Elton attempts, weakly tossing his head. He’s hanging onto critical thought by the thinnest thread, his body lit like a bulb, white hot and awash with sensation.

Bernie pauses, mouth against his, his breath hot with tequila. Bernie hates tequila. “Don’t you want me to?” he says, quizzical.

“Yes,” Elton breathes, rapturous.

“Then let me.” Bernie reassures him as he slides down, fumbles at his buckle. This is one _hell_ of a reunion. He can’t think about it, can’t think at all, every time his brain tries to realize what’s happening he short-circuits. His best friend. For forever—

Bernie’s mouth slides around him with no preamble and Elton moans helplessly. Always helpless against him, he’d follow him to the absolute ends of the earth, no use pretending otherwise. Lets it all fall away, nothing else matters to him but the unreal heat of his mouth. It's nothing new in abstract, he's had so many mouths around him, countless men in his bed over the years, but this feels like nothing else. They’d shared so much with each other, but never this. Never could. 

The chandelier jingles knowingly above him as Elton stares agape at it, the whole room a jostling rhythmic secret thing, laughing around them.

Elton keens and sighs, _yes_ and _Bernie_ and _please_ , sliding his hands through his long hair. Bernie makes muffled noises against his cock, words lost in his efforts that make Elton gasp. Bernie’s so smart, so much smarter than he is; why did they ever talk, why did they ever do anything but exactly this. 

He’s so uncommonly gentle, aching with it, cradling Bernie’s head like it’s the sun, hot and precious in his hands, not lazy and demanding like he is with his typical bedmates. Bernie grips him closer and he hunches, fucking up smoothly into Bernie’s mouth, who reacts and takes it so easily.

All too soon it wells up and overcomes him, dizzy, and Elton releases with a shout, pressing his fists into the mattress. He blinks, lying limply on the bed, chest heaving, strangely close to tears.

“ _Perfect_. Oh god, Bernie.”

His head lifts and a hand wipes across his mouth, and it’s—full, pink lips. Not the mouth Elton knows. “It’s Bobby,” the kid replies. Angrily. Not the first time, probably. 

His hair is longish and brown but his eyes and nose are very small, his face smooth and unlined. Some interloper at the party. Elton grabs at the edge of a memory, remembers petting him in a corner before shoving him off sometime earlier tonight.

The room slides sideways, just a bit. The edges of everything, once shimmering and joyful around them, now seem sadly slumped around the corners.

“Right,” Elton says dimly. 

He’s woozy, _fuck_ , too high and drunk and all the rest. A pain starts behind his right eye, throbbing.

“Bob-by,” the boy says again, enunciating. “Who the fuck—”

-

On the roof, they had. Years and years ago.

“Sorry, _sorry_.” Elton apologized weakly, over and over, even as he kept kissing him. Drunk, and defeated, with Bernie bolstering his confidence just enough to quit his moping. Just enough to lean in and kiss him, once, just to see, but then he couldn’t stop.

Tucked between slatted roofs and sat on the ledge, the starlight above and the streetlamps below, the whole scene a soft romantic blur surrounding them. The swelling of strings, the feeling of _finally_ ; if Elton just tried, maybe he could capture it.

Romance, like in the movies. But the movies never had one partner making sad noises, one mouth twisting under the other’s.

“Mate,” Bernie said, kind but final, pulling away. His hands were firm on Elton’s arms. “Come on. Let’s... stop, now.”

“Can’t,” Elton pleaded, “you—“ He curled a hand over the inside of Bernie’s leg, his breath shuddering against his cheek. He wanted to make a man feel good. He wanted to make Bernie feel good.

But through an enormous effort Elton did stop, panting, his hands propped on Bernie’s thighs. He planted his forehead against his shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut, tried to catch his breath like he’d just run a race. Reminded him of primary school, huffing and puffing, miserable games of rounders, never good enough to be picked.

Everything else worked, just _worked_ , between them. It wasn’t crazy to think, wasn’t pathetic to think, that this could too.

Bernie’s hands rubbed his back between his shoulder blades, soothing him through his jacket. “You’re alright,” Bernie murmured. His voice was shaky, and he fidgeted underneath Elton’s grasp.

Elton paused. “Y’okay?”

Bernie said gruffly, “Yeah, just gimme a minute.”

Elton cracked open his eyes and saw, couldn’t help but see. The beginning of a bulge at Bernie’s zipper, just enough. They’re both young, hair triggers and all that. That’s all that it was, he knew. But still. 

He moved his hands, trembling, up the inside of his thighs. Then higher, just a little. His thumbs traced circles, faint and curious.

“I—“ Bernie’s voice stuck in his throat.

Elton let his hands move slowly, carefully. He dared to fit his hand over his crotch and breathed out, felt his bulge enticingly firm and warm under his palm. Relished the answering twitch of his hips.

“You don’t have to,” Elton whispered, kneading his forehead against his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to.” 

Bernie was drunk and he was drunk, and maybe it was that that allowed his hand to cup and tease over Bernie, allowed Bernie’s head to tip back, allowed all of this to seem like the very best idea in the world.

“Just,” Elton breathed, still rubbing him, fascinated at his filling cock. Bernie made bitten-off sounds and clenched around his shoulders, but he didn’t tell him to stop. 

Elton’s hands shook as he ticked down Bernie’s zipper, lifted him out of his pants, gentle. Bernie’s arms attempted to fold around him but flailed outward instead, grounding himself on the ledge. They could have so easily fallen. 

Elton stroked him, heavy and hot in his hand, thrilling at each tiny, involuntary reaction. Bernie groaned high and weak in his throat, _ehh_ , and Elton counted it as a victory. Could be his name.

He couldn’t stop staring, looking at Bernie’s cock shoving between his unskilled fingers. He summoned all the courage he ever had to look up at Bernie, and his breath was hitching, eyes closed, head tossed to the night sky. He was so gorgeous, the best man he knew. Lit by the thin wedge of light spilling out onto the roof, illuminating just the slope of his neck, the edge of his jaw as he trembled. Elton watched him for a moment, and this was the thing that made his cheeks finally flush, not the hard jut of his dick thrusting into his hand.

Elton tore his gaze away and focused on easing the slide of his hand, making it good for him.

Bernie let out a louder noise, then. Elton murmured, “Shh.” Like he was in any position to make demands.

"Wha—" Bernie’s eyes opened, dazed, and slid to the cracked casement. “S’that what you want? Arabella’ll c-come up here and see? See how you are?” 

“Sh- _shush_ , Bernie—”

“Know she’s done for?”

Unrelenting heat flooded him at the thought of being caught doing this, this that he wanted so badly, getting off the first man who would have him. And truthfully, almost equally thrilling was the idea of being _rid_ of her, oh god. He tightened his grip around Bernie, who choked in response.

Elton wound a hand around his back and clutched him, sped the pace of his hand, and _oh_ , he realized from Bernie's stuttered breath that he _liked_ that, and almost faltered. “Come on.”

Bernie’s heeled boots scraped at the boards on the roof as he came, surprised and jumping out of his skin like he didn’t realize what they were doing for the past few minutes. Elton saw a single hot burst— _he can’t stain those lovely teal trousers_ —and leaned down and wrapped his lips around him. Bernie cried out, thrusting harder and then all of a sudden twitching away, legs juddering and shoving him off, panting crazily.

Elton toppled backward onto the roof and landed hard on his seat.

“Ah, shit, sorry, sorry, I—” Bernie staggered, fumbled with his trousers.

“S’alright,” Elton rasped, coughing. He watched as Bernie got himself together, zipped up and proper again, his breath fast.

Bernie stumbled and faced him, mouth moving and nothing coming out. 

He finally blurted, “Well, that’s never gonna happen again.” Laughed, loud. Sheepishly scratched his head.

Elton matched him, forced a laugh, still sprawled ungainly on the ground while an unfair bulge protested at his zipper. He couldn’t see too well; he pushed his glasses up his nose.

Bernie looked uncomfortable. Elton said in a rush, “No, of course, of course. I don’t, uh. Never.” His heart sank, inevitably, plummeting three stories to the street below. He curled against the ledge.

A train whistle sounded, far off. 

“I, um.” He had nothing to say. 

Bernie stood with his hands laced behind his neck, blowing out his cheeks. Elton had the distinct feeling that if he blinked, he’d open his eyes and Bernie would have disappeared. Like he never existed. 

Elton could taste him, in the back of his throat.

“I’d better, uh. Get down there.” He couldn’t lift his gaze. “Don’t want to make her angry.”

After an age of miserable silence, Elton broke, slightly.

“Not too late to throw myself over the ledge, is it?” he half-joked. Desperately.

He heard a low, weighted exhale in the quiet that followed. Heard a slow shuffle of footsteps approach him. Saw a hand reach into his field of vision.

Bernie pulled Elton up from where he was still plunked on the ground. Helped him to his feet, squeezed his hand and dusted off his jacket, which wasn’t dirty. Straightened his ascot, which hadn't been disturbed.

“We’re good,” Bernie finally said, hands solid on his shoulders. Met his eye with a careful, purposeful smile. Elton returned it, as much as he could manage. “We’ll always be good.”

-

Elton can’t breathe.

The stranger frowns. “Who the fuck is Bernie?”


End file.
